


Bloodletting

by Arakai



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Human trade, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Mild torture, Mind Control, Multi, Original work - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, dark themes, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 22:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arakai/pseuds/Arakai
Summary: Zigor Fiorenzi finds himself in the trunk of a car, on his way to be shipped to the old city of Nerezza after spending what seemed like eternity in the dark cellar of his captors. He realises he’s not the only one being carted to this strange place, and that his life is making less and less sense the more time he spends there. He knows for certain that the source of the madness seeps from the heart of the city- the home of Don Montresor DeFlores.





	1. Chapter 1

Nerezza was built on ancient land. It sprawled over a flat valley, with the outskirts curling up the ridges of the hills and mountains like a hermit crab poking its legs out of a shell. As large as it was, Narezza was still classified as a small city, and it seemed even smaller from its refusal to keep up with modern technology. The tallest structure was the cathedral in the middle of the city, and the cobblestone roads were only fit to hold horse-drawn carriages. Though a city, it was far out of the way. Roads didn’t lead to it, only dirt pathways from the surrounding farms in the hills and valleys. The last road on the way to Nerezza stopped at a gas station, where cars could be parked for the transfer to Nerezza’s carriage service. 

Zigor was getting anxious. For hours, all he could feel was the rumbling of the car engine as he was driven somewhere, the chains of his handcuffs rattling against each other, and the blindfold rubbing on his skin as he tipped over at every sharp curve in the road that surprised him. Now the car was stopped, and there was either silence or a soundproof partition between himself and his captors. He’d worn out his voice days earlier, from what felt like weeks of screaming for help. He’d determined that he was going to be used for something- his captors kept him fed and hydrated, although it was far from plentiful. He’d felt like a bird. He had a trough for water, and a bowl of pumpkin seeds that was refilled daily. But for the past hours of transport, there seemed to be nothing to sustain him. Nothing within his slim reach, at least. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he heard the door open next to him, and a rush of cold air washed over his exposed skin. He heard the click of a lock, and he was disconnected from the car. The rough hands of his captors pulled him out into the open, his feet landing on rough gravel. They must have gone far out into the country, he assumed. The air no longer smelt of salt like the coastal cities, nor did the familiar smog of pollution tip him off to any semblance of mass civilisation. The air was fresh, with a twinge of gasoline, and a faint scent of beasts. He shivered, the cold air rushing over everywhere that wasn’t covered by his boxers. He was at least allowed to have some dignity. Zigor flinched as the blindfold was removed, the orange afternoon assaulting his photosensitive eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sky since he was kidnapped, and here he was greeted with a rich sunset. The low sun was blotted out by a shadow approaching him, and he squinted as he tried to focus.  
“Pumpkin seed. One month.” The voice was gruff and curt as it addressed the shadow. Pen hastily scribbled across paper, and the shadow stepped out of the way as Zigor was dragged to a carriage. The chain linking his hands and feet that was once attached to the bottom of a car was now attached to a loop on the floor of the carriage. Zigor’s eyes finally adjusted, and he looked around in horror at the passengers subjected to the same fate as him. All men and women around his age, all in their underwear, and all with signs clipped around their necks. The shadow from before, now recognisable as some sort of upper-class attendant, clipped a sign around Zigor’s neck. He now matched the twenty or so passengers that were sat silently in the carriage. They all looked tired, scared, and hopeless. And none of them spoke to each other. Zigor felt like it was more a lack of something to say. The carriage door clicked as it locked, and it soon started moving as the horses drew it away.

The small strip of a view Zigor could see through the carriage door’s window was beautiful. The sinking sun bathed the lush farmland in a late-Autumn glow, and the shadows of dusk lazily chased the beasts of the farmlands back to their paddocks for the coming night. As the sky darkened, the pinpricks of stars gathered into their constellations, the soft and slight variations of colours more visible in the atmosphere of the fresh country air. The city could never be this beautiful, he thought.

He must have fallen asleep during his admiration of the night, as Zigor suddenly woke to the bright morning light streaming into the carriage from the now open door. The same attendant from before unlocked Zigor’s connection to the carriage, and a hefty stranger gripped his chains to drag him out. The road outside was paved with cobblestone, and the stone houses lining the streets gave him a feeling like somehow he’d gone back in time. He developed an even more alien feeling as he saw a group of teenagers in more modern clothes wander across the street in the distance. It was like a city stuck in a tourist-filled renaissance fair. But the tourists were actually locals. He didn’t have much time to decipher his feelings further, as he was pulled into the store next to the carriage. The store smelt of metal and hospital-grade cleanliness, but it was set up like a deli, or a butcher. Zigor was moved behind the frosted display cases, and out to the store rooms. His breath caught in his throat as he saw a room full of other people, all hanging by their handcuffs on hooks suspended from the ceiling. Like slabs of meat. He started to panic, and instinctively tried to wrestle out of the grip of the stranger.  
“Don’t fight,” he growled, “you won’t win.”  
A few of the other prisoners looked up at the commotion, but settled again as Zigor was hoisted up onto his own hook. He tried to kick away, with little result as his cuffed feet stunted his momentum, but then turned his attention to the hook. He tried to lift himself up to be able to grab it, but it was always just out of reach.  
“Can you not?” A prisoner growled at him, “you’re making so much fucking noise.”  
“I don’t want to die,” Zigor wheezed, his voice still weak, “let me go.”  
“You can’t escape. Everyone’s tried. Just shut up and wait to die like the rest of us.”  
“No. No, please. No, I don’t want to die, please, please God, let me go.”  
“Fucking hell,” another prisoner said with a sigh, “they haven’t even tapped him and he’s already bitching.”  
Zigor was confused. The prisoners just...didn’t care. They’d already accepted death. He was terrified.  
One by one, the others from the carriage were brought in and set on their hooks. Nobody made a fuss but him, except for small whimpers of discomfort or fear as the stranger returned with a trolley and started taking vials of blood from all the new arrivals. Zigor tried to demand what was going on, but the stranger didn’t answer. He was left in the dark, again, hanging from the ceiling as he tried to plead for his life.


	2. 2

The dawn light shining through the stained glass of the cathedral bathed Montresor in a colourful aura as he looked over the pews from his throne. An attendant by the cathedral doors called out to Montresor’s guards to alert them of a visitor, but Montresor himself barely moved as the citizen approached.  
“I’m sorry to intrude, Don DeFlores. The farmers send word that government officials have been spotted around the edges of your land.”  
Montresor’s mouth twitched into a smirk.  
“How curious. You’re sure of this?”  
“Yes, sir. The Alejandros sent me with this,” he opened his satchel, taking out a digital camera to hand to an attendant. The attendant brought it to Montresor, who looked through the photos with a growing smile.  
“Oh, the sly worms. The Alejandro family will be rewarded for this work. As will you, messenger. We will return this once we’re done.”  
The attendant held out a bag of coins to the messenger, who bowed and blessed Montresor before scurrying out of the cathedral hall. Montresor stood, tossing the camera to a nearby lackey.  
“Take care of this. Send a message if you must. If those fools want to overstep their bounds, they’ve forgotten who waits on the other side of their line.”  
His cape fluttered along behind him as his regal strides carried him to the guarded entrance of the cathedral.  
“Sir?” An attendant asked.  
“Tell the people to secure the city. I won’t have another culling under my reign.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
He continued to his carriage, taking the short ride to a store a few blocks away. The owner nearly jumped out of his skin as he saw Montresor enter, hurriedly giving him a stiff bow.  
“Don DeFlores, this is a surprise.”  
“Spies are encroaching, Vito. I felt compelled to check your fresh stock myself.”  
“Your timing is impeccable, as always, sir. The carriage left not ten minutes ago.”  
“How convenient. Lead the way.”  
Vito bowed again, clearing away equipment to leave a generous path for Montresor to use as he led him to the storage room. The metallic musk hit him immediately, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood in primal excitement at the scent.  
“My apologies, I was just setting up the samples…”  
“I see,” Montresor replied, his hand reaching out to the nearest body to wipe off a blood droplet. His eyes shifted further into the room as he heard the clinking of chains.  
“An escapist?”  
“Unlikely,” Vito replied, “nobody’s ever gotten out. Probably just a struggler.”  
“Let me go,” Zigor hissed, “you can’t do this.”  
Montresor moved toward him, eyeing him as he stood before him.  
“What are you going to do about it?”  
Zigor snarled, struggling with all the energy he could muster to try and get off his hook. Montresor lifted the sign that was hanging around his neck, holding it in place so he could read as Zigor uselessly struggled.  
“Interesting.”  
“Is everything alright, Don DeFlores?”  
“A month of pumpkin seeds, and he still has the energy to struggle. Either your supplier lied to you, or we have a very interesting gentleman before us.”  
“Fuck you,” Zigor spat, “let me go.”  
“Pack him up for me. He’ll be lovely with a filet.”  
Vito bowed yet again, hurrying off to get his supplies.  
——   
Zigor was made to kneel on the solid marble of the cathedral floor, as Montresor took his relaxed yet regal seat on his throne. His iridescent, circular sunglasses almost made his face seem like it was part of the giant stained glass window framing him. Zigor could feel the power he was radiating from his seat, and he bowed his head to stop the fear from building in his head. He very much regretted his snapped insults from the store room.  
“You have been brought to the heart of Nerezza, in front of our leader- Don Montresor Fortuna DeFlores III. You will call him ‘sir’, or ‘Don DeFlores’. Is that clear?” A guard demanded of him.  
“Crystal,” Zigor growled. He was mentally kicking himself. Of course he’d cursed at the head of whatever mafia operation was running this town.  
An attendant stepped forward with a pen and notebook, eyeing Zigor with a look of distaste.  
“State your first and last name,” he said in a bored tone.  
Zigor tensed. He couldn’t think of a reason why they needed to know his name. Surely they were just going to kill him?   
“Marco Linetti,” he lied. An amused hum sounded from the throne, which made the attendant sigh and crouch to Zigor’s level.  
“Look. I have other things to do today. So you can stop lying and tell us your name, or I can get Antonio to persuade you to tell the truth.”  
“My name is Marco Linetti,” Zigor insisted.  
The attendant rolled his eyes and stood, tossing the book at the nearby guard. “He’s all yours, Antonio.”  
The guard- presumably Antonio- tugged Zigor to his feet, then forcefully led him to a side room. It was dim, with a single chair in its small space. He was forced to sit in the chair, his chains hooked to a loop on the floor. Before this mess had started, Zigor would have been as imposing as the guard. Although he was fiery, his body had atrophied considerably during his capture, and he appeared to be more of a mangy mutt of a man as opposed to the respectable appearance he used to maintain. Antonio folded his arms as he leaned against one of the walls.  
“You gonna torture me now? Because that guy didn’t believe me?”  
Antonio shook his head in answer. “Our attendant is not to blame. If Don DeFlores doesn’t believe you, then you’re lying. And now we have to bother Pharah, because you’re not co-operating.”  
“Pharah?”  
The door opened, and a tall woman entered. Her crimson hair whisped around her as she walked, and her tight dress left little of her figure to the imagination. She looked like the exact opposite of a woman who would be in a cathedral.  
“Speak, and I appear,” she announced, her voice soft yet domineering. She radiated the same feeling of power that Zigor had sensed from the Don, and as she stood before Zigor, her unnatural honey-amber eyes bored into his skull with an intensity that made his stomach turn. There was something very off about her.  
“Your Radiance,” Antonio greeted, “our apologies for summoning you to deal with such a lowly task.”  
“I don’t blame you. Monty is such a strange boy. Now, what to do with his new toy?”  
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Zigor growled, “you wanted my name. I gave it to you.”  
“And what was that name?” Pharah asked, tilting her head a little with the question.  
“Marco. Linetti.”  
Pharah leaned closer to his face with a menacing smile. His breath caught as he stared at her, and she spoke to him in the same oddly soothing tone.  
“Tell me your name.”  
His mouth moved on its own, like he was in a dissociative haze, as he told her.  
“Zigor Fiorenzi.”  
She blinked, and moved away from him, and he suddenly felt sick. Nausea rose up from his stomach, and his throat felt like it was closing.  
“That wasn’t so hard, hm? Antonio, get Mr. Fiorenzi a bucket, won’t you?”  
Just as the pail was set under him, Zigor emptied his stomach bile into it.  
“What...what did you do to me?!” Zigor demanded, wishing he could wipe his mouth as the acidic bile remnants tingled on his lips.  
“You wouldn’t understand. Now, did we learn a lesson about lying?”  
Zigor nodded, then leaned forward as his stomach emptied itself again. Pharah took the notebook from Antonio and wrote Zigor’s name at the top of a new page before making her exit.


	3. 3

The shaking carriage dragging across a bumpy dirt road did nothing to settle Zigor’s nausea. He lay on the floor, watching the sliver of landscape poking through the gap under the door pass by as the road twisted along. He’d stopped expelling whatever made its way into his stomach, but he still felt feverish and nauseated since that woman had somehow coerced his name out of him. It was like he’d been poisoned, yet he hadn’t consumed anything over the past day, and she didn’t touch him at all. He’d never heard of torture like this.   
The relief of the carriage stopping was short-lived, as the door was opened and his chains were grabbed by yet another stranger.  
“C’mon now. You can rest inside, son.”  
The stranger, an elderly man in mud stained clothes, gave his chains a little tug to try to encourage him out. Zigor could see the light slipping away from the sky, and he knew he wouldn’t survive long in the cold again if he were this sick. He got out of the carriage, resting a hand on the farmer for support.  
“Take it easy now. We’ll look after you.”  
He was slowly led inside as the carriage peeled away, and shown to a cozy room at the back of the farmhouse. He immediately sank into the bed, curling up on the sheets as he hugged his aching stomach. The farmer pulled a chair over to sit with him.  
“Mind if we talk now? Or do you need rest?”  
“I feel like shit,” Zigor groaned.  
“Alright. We’ll talk in the morning.”  
——  
Zigor’s body tensed with a moment of panic when he woke. He’d become so used to the dark basement he was held prisoner in, that the warm and cozy room around him gave him little comfort. He looked down at the thick, plain sheets, and was at least relieved that he hadn’t been sick again in his sleep. The previous day had felt like a hazy nightmare, but the acidic tang in his mouth was a gross reminder that he hadn’t dreamt it. Sometime during the night, his chains must have been removed, since he was now wearing a simple, woollen outfit. They were surprisingly warm, but he was unsurprised that they were ill-fitting. Though they’d been hemmed, they were still too long, and baggy in some places. It was, at least, better than wearing only his boxers.  
The rest of the farmhouse was fairly sparse, there were very little nick-nacks that gave him any idea of what the farmer was like. If anything, he seemed to like cows. There was a tapestry of a field of cows on the wall, there were jugs and vases either shaped or painted like cows, and as Zigor wandered outside, he spotted a cow-shaped wind chime with the chimes representing its legs.  
“Morning,” the farmer greeted, smearing dirt on his face at an attempt to wipe the sweat from his brow. An old wheelbarrow was set off to the side of the porch, full of weeds and clumps of dirt.  
“Is there much to garden in Winter?” Zigor asked as a way of reply, looking over the porch curiously.  
“Oh, sure. But you needn’t worry about that. Are you feeling well? I was hoping to talk to you.”  
“I’m better. Thank you.” He tried to fold his arms over his chest, the clinking chains clasped around his wrists and ankles reminding him that such mobility wasn’t possible. “What did you need to talk about?”  
“Well, I’m not sure if Don DeFlores told you much, or anything at all, but...you’re going to be staying here for a while. And taking care of some things around here for us. Like a farmhand.”  
“Like a slave,” Zigor replied in an irritated tone.  
“Essentially. Sorry, son.”  
“Can I at least get these cuffs off?”  
The farmer shook his head. “We can’t, for the first month. Don DeFlores’ rules. And he’d find out if we did, trust me. So, starting tomorrow, you’ll be working for us, and that means you need to do what we ask of you.”  
“We?”  
“Oh. Geez, I skipped right over introductions. I’m Theodore Alejandro- call me ‘Ted’- and my wife’s name is Ramona. She doesn’t get about much, she’s...well, she’s got osteoporosis. And the cold weather doesn’t do much for her either. It’s just me working around here now.”  
“I’m sorry to hear that.”  
“Thanks. Anyway, we’re appreciative of the Don for sending us help, it’s just a shame you were forced into it.”  
“I can think of worse things that could’ve happened. Oh, thank you for the clothes, as well.”  
Ted chuckled, “no need to thank me for covering you up. You’ll freeze to death if you don’t have something on.”  
“With any luck.”  
——  
The soil of the fields was frozen. Not so frozen that it had become a solid mass, but frozen enough that the manual plough Zigor had been strapped into- in lieu of a workhorse- felt as stubborn and heavy as pulling along a truck with the handbrake on. The horse, whose name was apparently Pinot, was too old and worn to have suffered through another winter in Nerezza. Ted, as payment from the Don, was promised a replacement. Not necessarily another horse.  
Zigor’s numb fingers gripped the stiff land beneath him as he pushed forward on all fours to try and till the field. His arms and legs burned with exhaustion, yet his fingers and toes remained numb from the biting cold nipping back at his attempts to anchor himself into the soil.  
A month until spring, he was told. The dirt would shift easier as the winter thawed.

His routine started to set, with the help of Ted. They woke at dawn, Zigor going out to the plough to be strapped in for the day- continuing his snail crawl of tilling- and Ted would go back inside afterwards to look after his wife and continue his progress on an early spring clean of the house. After dusk, Zigor was let out of the plough’s harness, and taken to a small bath house behind the farmhouse so he could wash. There was little time for him to relax in the bath, as Ted had to be there the whole time to help him dress and undress around his cuffs. They’d eat, go to their rooms, and rest to start again the next day.  
After a week, a carriage pulled into the farm. A cloaked figure stepped down from the driver’s seat, heading straight for the front door with a manilla envelope. Zigor, panting and sore, looked over at the horses. He wished one of them could take his place. The horses were near motionless, he couldn’t even see their breaths condensing from their muzzles. He would have thought such beasts would be a bit livelier.  
When the carriage pulled away, Zigor felt a tug at his side.  
“Theodore? It’s barely past midday, I’m not done yet.”  
“We gotta talk inside.”  
“Is everything alright?”  
“Inside,” Ted insisted, taking off the harness. He was led to the kitchen table- rather than the bath house- and sat down in front of the opened envelope.  
“What’s this?” Zigor asked.  
Ted pulled a folder from the envelope, opening it to show Zigor’s records. Police, medical, educational- his whole life in a beige folder.  
“The Don sent this to us. So we can decide if you can get out of his cuffs or not.”  
Zigor’s jaw clenched. “I assume you’ve read it all.”  
“The important parts are highlighted. But what makes this hard is...I feel like you’re a trustworthy lad. You’re a P.I., you’ve worked pro bono multiple times with certain clients, but...this record…”  
He knew what Ted was talking about. “You don’t have to trust me. It’s natural to think I’m going to run once I’m freed.”  
“Will you?”  
“I don’t know. I don’t know where this place is. I’ve been missing for God knows how long, and if I find my way back home, I don’t know how much of it will be left.”  
Ted took a deep breath, and followed it with a contemplative sigh. “I need help on the farm. Ramona’s bedridden, Pinot’s passed, and I’m...old. Without you here, our farm won’t work. We’ll starve to death.”  
“DeFlores would let that happen?”  
“The Don sent you. That’s our arrangement. If I want his help, I have to earn it. And I don’t have anything more to give.”

They sat in silence. Zigor was thinking, and Ted was waiting patiently.  
“I’ll stay. If only for your family.”  
“Thank you, lad. Really.” Ted looked more than relieved, clasping his shaky hands around one of Zigor’s. “I’ll send word to the Don. You can wait a few more days, right?”  
“If I need to.”  
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”


	4. 4

Zigor couldn’t recall his arrival into the small, dark chamber. The sound of water drops echoed around the stone bricks, and the wood of the table he was seated at creaked as he shifted his weight. His hands were unrestrained, but still had a numb feeling as he flexed them out of curiosity.  
He felt eyes on him. Looking up, two women were seated at the table with him. He faintly recognised one of them, but the other felt like a total stranger.  
“Pharah,” one of the women offered as an introduction, “we’ve met before, yes.”  
“Reverie.” The other woman’s voice was soft, like the whisper of a lullaby. It made him feel like warm milk was washing over him.  
“This is a Room of Commune,” Pharah explained. “We’ve been trying to get you here for a while.”  
“You have a strong mind.” Reverie smiled.  
Zigor felt like he should be ignoring the warm feeling he got when she spoke. But, he also felt like he was in a daze.  
“In a dream,” Reverie said, interrupting his thoughts, “you’re smarter than you look.”  
“I’m lucid,” Zigor said, suspicion in his voice. Reverie nodded at him.  
“You’re on an astral plane. A world of shared spirits. Our souls are connected and communicating across space. Your mental energy is new to this place, so you haven’t learnt how to keep stray thoughts away.”  
“We can hear everything you think,” Pharah added, “and at the request of our dear brother, we need to talk with you.”  
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”  
“No.”  
Zigor sighed at that.  
“What do you people want from me?”  
“Your expertise. We hear you’re a private investigator. A good one.”  
“I don’t help criminals.”  
“We know. But dear brother is stubborn. So I had Reverie come to assist me.”  
Reverie bowed her head, her soft, inky black hair slipping from her shoulders like the tendrils of a thin octopus.   
“I...I will try to be gentle.”  
Zigor blushed. “And you’re planning to do...what…?”  
Pharah merely smirked. She closed her eyes, and the table suddenly held just Zigor and Reverie.  
“DeFlores needs a bodyguard,” she said, her head lifting back up to face him. Her hair seemed to continue lifting, spreading far past shoulder length as it seemed to grip onto the stones and mortar of the room. Her eyes were golden.  
“Pharah,” Zigor’s unconscious said. Their eyes were the same.  
“The bodyguard he chose was you. But you’re not ready. Not yet.”  
“Yet?”  
The room was dark. The dense ink of her hair crawled over his skin like a living tattoo. He could feel the pressure around his arms, his legs, his chest…  
And her voice. Her voice filled his throat like sweet syrup, running down into the core of his body. His ears heard the chatter of a million nymphs, of conversations he couldn’t make sense of. His mind ebbed with a weak feeling of panic, like he needed to break free of her cradling presence. But the words filling his head, telling him to listen to the whispers of madness, blocked out his own consciousness. His consciousness was wrapped in bandages of black, and preserved in an ethereal honey. He fell deeper into sleep.  
——  
Whether it was the steady rain, his exhaustion catching up to him, or ominous feelings of unrest when he woke up in the morning that left Zigor feeling drained, he wasn’t sure. It might have been all three reasons. The mud made the plough move a little easier through the softening soil, but each time he anchored a limb into the field, he felt as though it would swallow him. Ted snapped him from his daze at dusk, and before he knew it, he was in the bath- with Ted washing his clothes in a tub nearby.  
“I think I’ve been having strange dreams.”  
“Is that unusual?” Ted asked in reply.  
“I think so. I’m usually not aware I’m dreaming. When I’m in a dream. If that makes sense.”  
Ted hummed in affirmation. “The Don might be keeping an eye on you.”  
“That’s ominous.”  
“It is. He’s very defensive of newcomers to the city.”  
Zigor shifted in the bath, sinking a little lower.  
“Is he doing this to the others?”  
“The others?”  
“There were more people that were brought here with me. All hanging in that building.”  
Ted stood, hanging the damp clothes near the coals under the bath to dry. The look on his face was solemn, but in a way like he was trying to hide his emotions.  
“You’d be better off not thinking about them.”  
“Theodore. What happened to them?”  
“It’s not my place to say. I’m sorry.”  
Zigor’s jaw clenched. Since coming to Nerezza, nothing had made sense. And as a detective, nothing was more frustrating to him than not understanding his situation.


	5. 5

The day the rain finally cleared was the day the messenger returned to the farm. Ted greeted her, just as Zigor was heading out toward the plough. He was stopped halfway there, called over to the carriage with Ted and the messenger. To his surprise, the cuffs restraining him were finally removed for good, and handed over to the messenger. Zigor revelled in his ability to finally stretch out in the fresh air- his weary joints cracking as they settled back into their proper place.  
“You look a lot better, kid,” Ted said with a smile, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.  
“Don DeFlores sends your permit,” the messenger said in a raspy voice, holding out a small envelope to Zigor. There was a slip of paper inside, sheltered in a thin, clear pouch. The words were written with a beautiful calligraphy in deep black ink, and the bottom of the paper held an intricate seal in crimson wax.  
“I’m permitted into the city under probation,” he said aloud as he read, “as if I want to go into the city at all.”  
“You’ll need to,” Ted explained. “If we run too low on supplies, I can’t go into town myself. Sorry, lad.”  
Zigor shook his head, “it’s fine, Theodore. I agreed to help your family.”  
“Pleasing news,” the messenger murmured. She seemed to have climbed back onto the carriage while he wasn’t paying attention. Ted handed Zigor a small clip of money, patting his hand.  
“Go with her and get some better clothes. Something sturdier than those rags.”  
He nodded, and went around to the back of the carriage when the messenger gestured to it.

The ride was surprisingly smooth, and he almost fell asleep on the trip along the country road. But the lively bustle of the city morning soon filled his ears, and he poked his head out from the back of the carriage to look around. Some kids were walking along the sidewalks, in uniform outfits and hefty bags. The city had a school somewhere, he deduced. Close enough for children to walk there.  
It was odd how normal the city seemed, despite the medieval style of all the scenery, and the fact that it was supposedly run by an incredibly secretive mafia.  
The carriage came to a stop outside of a post office, and the messenger climbed down to go inside. Zigor took it as his cue to disembark as well, and he decided to wander through the city to gain some bearing of where he supposedly lived now. The winding streets led to a large market outside of the cathedral- the building at the heart of the city. Some stalls were still setting up, but some already had ladies calling out for passers-by to look at their wares. Standing out from the crowd- or rather, towering over it, was a tall, built man that nearly had to crouch to look under the awnings of the stall that had caught his attention. His stature was reminiscent of a handsome golem, with ink hair tied back in a ponytail to show off the strong details of his face. He was impressive- especially to Zigor, who had rarely seen a man taller than him. The man in question turned his head, amber eyes catching Zigor’s stare. Zigor turned, as if interested in a nearby stall, but the man was already moving toward him.  
“Nero finally meets you,” he said, his voice like falling gravel. “Nero has heard much about you, Mr. Fiorenzi. Your permit arrived this morning.”  
“Uh...yeah. It did. Theodore sent me out for clothes.”  
“Nero is glad.”  
“And you’re...Nero?”  
“Nero DeFlores.” He grabbed Zigor’s hand in a strong handshake. Zigor felt his stomach sink.  
“DeFlores.”  
“Nero has a large family. You will meet many of his siblings. Hopefully by chance, and not by getting into trouble.”  
“I’ll try to keep my nose clean.”  
Nero’s smile did little to settle him. It was like being smiled at by a shark. The toothy grin flashed a glimpse of his pointed molars, narrow canines, and sloped incisors. It was a mouth for sinking into flesh, carnivorous fangs straight out of an animal. Zigor felt like prey trying to be set at ease by a predator.  
“You look strong. Nero is impressed. He is glad you didn’t go to waste like the others.” The hand patting his shoulder supportively felt like it was pelting him with a rock. Zigor was just feeling an increasing sense of panic at Nero’s attempts to seem friendly. His primal instincts were telling him that this bestial man could kill him at a moment’s notice, and he really didn’t want to keep standing there.  
Nero’s attention was stolen by a smaller woman arriving at his side. Unlike Nero, her skin was more pale, and her face was much more rounded in comparison to his gaunt features. She brushed strawberry-blonde ringlets away from her brown eyes, and gave Zigor a pleasant, human smile. Nero ducked his head to her level, gently kissing her cheek and murmuring a barely audible “bella bella” into her ear. Given the difference in looks- and probably stature, since her dress cinched along her ribcage and gave little shape to her waist or legs- she wasn’t family by blood.  
“Good morning. Are you a friend of Nero’s?”  
“We’ve just met,” Zigor replied to her.  
“Nero is behaving himself,” Nero said, putting his arms around her waist to be close enough to rest his head on her hair. It was still a reach, since her head barely reached the top of his chest, but she seemed very comfortable in this position- like she was wearing Nero.  
“I let him do a little browsing on his own,” she explained. “But he’s a relentless haggler.”  
Nero looked embarrassed. “Nero knows what price is fair. Markets always inflate the prices.”  
“But you’re related to Don DeFlores, right?” Zigor asked in confusion, “the family that rules over the city surely has money to spare for others.”  
“That’s what the people think,” the lady agreed, “so the price becomes even more inflated when a DeFlores shows up to the stall.”  
Zigor hummed in thought. Nero was too distracted with giving gentle kisses to the lady’s head and swaying her a little in his arms, so Zigor didn’t expect further comment.  
“So, you must be new to town. I wasn’t aware tourist season had started,” she commented.  
“I’m not a tourist. But, I am new to the town.”  
The information didn’t seem to trouble her.  
“Be careful to head home before it gets dark. You’ll get lost in the streets without a light.”  
Zigor hadn’t taken note before, but as he remembered his view of the city, he realised that there were no street lights lining the roads. Not even lanterns, so as to match the old buildings.  
But why?  
“Not much night life, then?”  
She gave an ambiguous hum in reply.  
Zigor blinked as the light seemed to catch Nero’s eyes, watching him with the honey-sulphur colour he continued to distrust. The same colour that made him sick, that invaded his dreams. It was only a second before they settled into the dull caramel he’d seen before, and although he felt on edge, his rational mind told him that iris colours don’t shift so easily. It was definitely the light.  
“I should leave you two to your shopping,” Zigor suggested, shifting away from them a little.  
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fiorenzi.”  
His eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t offer my name to you.”  
“You must have,” she insisted, “I wouldn’t know it otherwise.”  
He didn’t trust that response. “Of course. I must have forgotten.”  
“Well then, good day,” she replied with a smile, turning as Nero shifted to take her hand while they walked. Zigor left the market area, not wanting to run into more of the Don’s family. If there were even any more to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story backlog. More will be posted when it becomes available.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and characters will be updated as I write, since not everything is fleshed out. I’m a bit rusty at writing, so please forgive any errors (or make them known for me to fix).  
> I hope you enjoy my work.


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